Memento
by Acebased
Summary: Season one, post'Something Wicked', preFinale. Dean gets into a car accident while driving in the snow, and while knocked out his subconscious helps him to learn a lesson he's been avoiding for years. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Alright, first things first. I do not own the Winchesters. At all. But since this is on **fan **fiction dot net (note the FAN) that should be obvious.

This fic takes place somewhere in season one, anywhere after 'Something Wicked' and before the season finale. ALSO, I would like to point out that this is the first multi-chaptered fic I have ever written. Ever. Ever managed to finish, anyway, so I'm very proud. And very creatively exhausted, since I spent all day and most of the night yesterday writing this and using up thirty-something pieces of looseleaf. So please be nice.

Anyway, all that aside... read on.

--

**Chapter One**

"Damn Colorado and its crappy weather," Dean grumbled as he snapped the motel's ratty curtains shut. It was snowing incessantly and had been for hours, halting he and his brother's plans to leave the state that day.

He glanced back at Sam who was sitting on his bed with his laptop. He didn't seem to have heard him, nor did he notice when Dean took the liberty of staring at him for a moment, trying to imagine the twenty-three-year-old as an eight-year-old again. He was staring so intently at the computer screen like he used to do with books when he was little, trying to squeeze every fact he could out of the text. Dean would always tease him about it; tell him what a dork he was being. He decided to spare him the teasing this time.

Finally he pulled his eyes away, walking to the small kitchen area of the motel room to grab something to eat. He rifled through the bag the two always carried with them that contained their food inside the mini fridge. Upon finding nothing but some crumbs, an old cheese wrapper and a bottle cap, he turned around. "Yo, Sammy. This the last of our food?"

Sam looked up, found Dean after glancing around the area his voice came from. "Uh, yeah," he confirmed absently, glancing back at the computer screen.

"Don't get too concerned there, Sparky. It's a marshmallow world outside and we've got no food until this storm stops." Dean hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, walking over to the window as if to see if the snow had let up. It hadn't.

"Sorry," Sam said, obviously distracted. "I'm a little busy and food's the last thing on my mind."

Dean looked over at him, raised an eyebrow. "What're you doing that could possibly be that interesting?" He regretted asking the moment the words left his mouth. Incoming, one Sam Winchester-style, one-hour explanation.

"Looking at news reports from Arizona."

… Okay, that wasn't nearly as long as he expected it to be. But before he could comment on it, he felt his stomach grumble discontentedly. "I'll bet that's fascinating, but my stomach is about to eat itself. I'munna go out and get us some grub, alright?"

This got Sam's attention. "You what? No! It's a blizzard out there!"

"Hey, Sam. Chill. I'll be fine," Dean replied, holding a hand up. He thumbed at the door. "Besides, I'd rather freeze to death out there than starve to death in here."

"You know that's not funny."

Dean grinned. "Aw, come on. The nearest grocery store ain't that far away. And you know me, the cautious driver."

Sam simply gave him his patented Sammy-Glare. "You're doing a horrible job of convincing me."

"Seriously, dude. I'll be fine." He grabbed his coat, slipped it on and zipped it up, readying himself for the harsh and biting winds outside. "I'll be back in a few." His mind returned to that mental image of the eight-year-old Sammy on the bed and he grinned. "Don't open the door for strangers, you hear?"

He was out the door before he could hear his little brother's reaction.

The snow was coming down fiercer than he'd thought. Driving this backroad was a bitch; it took him nearly five minutes to get to what must have normally been only a minute's drive from the motel. There was no one else on the road, he noticed, and for good reason.

When the tires spun for a third time, Dean hit the steering wheel in frustration. "Damn it!" Looking around the empty road as the snow made light thudding noises on the windshield, he finally decided to floor it, hoping it would propel the car forward and out of the snow. Luckily, it worked.

Up ahead was what looked like recently plowed road. "Now we're in business," the elder Winchester boy said to himself, switching gears. He turned up the radio – he felt it appropriate now that he wasn't concentrating on plowing his beloved car through the snow – and began trying to pick up the tune to the verse of some song he knew was by Stone Temple Pilots – "Interstate Love Song", was it? – And steered the Impala around a bend in the road. The visibility sucked, but thankfully it was unlikely for him to encounter any other cars on the road.

This last hunt hadn't gone very well. It wasn't so much the hunt as the tension that had built up between the brothers. Some touchy things had gotten brought up while they were there that unearthed some bad memories for Dean, so he figured going for a drive was just what the doctor ordered; getting away from his little brother for a while and just having time to think and take out all of his frustrations on the gas pedal and the snowflakes getting flattened against the windshield. He wouldn't be too long, of course, or Sam would worry about him. He'd get to the store, load up on food and be back before dark.

That was the plan, anyway.

After about fifteen minutes of driving Dean was still surrounded by trees. He had to at least be halfway there, he mentally griped. He squinted down the road, turned the heat up and felt a jolt when the Impala skidded on a patch of ice, swerving towards a ditch despite Dean's best efforts to regain control of the vehicle. "Jesus—"

There is always a time when we realize the inevitable. Not many of us use that to our advantage, however. But Dean Winchester did, and in that one moment before everything went black he pulled the keys from the ignition.

And closed his eyes.

--

R&R. Reviews are nice. That's why they made the button that nice purple colour.


	2. Chapter 2

I still don't own the Winchesters. Sorry.

--

**Chapter Two**

When Dean awoke, he was back at the motel. Or he thought he was; it looked quite a bit different than the one he and Sam were staying at. But it seemed familiar somehow, and as he looked, bleary-eyed around the room he tried to piece it all together.

Well, for one thing, this place actually had a bedroom. It wasn't the usual everything-is-stuffed-into-one-stinking-room deal, obviously. Of course, there wasn't anything aside from the bed he lay on and the one next to him – what was that little moving lump under the covers? – And the air smelled strangely of gunpowder and alcohol. A smell Dean knew all too well, but that usually only came with…

Okay, where was Sam?

Dean sat up in the bed, looking around. Before he could do much else, he heard movement from the main room. Out of instinct he reached for his gun, ready to take out whatever poor bastard had thought they could take him on. He reached for it, but it wasn't there.

"Dean!"

Dean blinked, confusion settling even deeper than before. "Dad?"

"Dean! Get up!"

Slowly, Dean stood and walked to the bedroom door. "Hey, I'm up. Dad?"

John Winchester was sitting at the table, impatience showing on his face – a face that looked quite a bit younger than it did the last time his son saw him. Dean's eyes shot around the room as if an explanation would be tacked to the wall. Stranger still, John didn't seem to notice him.

"Dad, I'm right here." He waited a moment, but no response. "You deaf?"

"_Dean Winchester!_ You get your ass out of bed this second!"

"Wait a minute," Dean muttered. "This is a little too familiar—"

He was cut off when a young boy no more than ten years old walked _through _him ("What the hell?!") , rubbing the sleep from his eyes yet still managing to look alert. When he reached John he stood up straight.

"What the fu… that's _me,_" Dean realized, eyes widening as he watched the scene play out before him.

"Dean, I want to talk to you about last night," John said in a firm tone. "About following orders."

Dean watched his younger self look down and nearly did so himself. "That's right, the Shtriga," he almost whispered, though it wasn't as if they could hear him. This had been the morning after the Shtriga had nearly gotten Sam because of him. "Still haven't really forgiven myself for that," he added under his breath.

"Yes sir," little Dean said, waiting for his father to speak. He glanced over at the armchair where Sammy was asleep, wrapped up in a blanket. Dean couldn't help but notice how innocent he looked.

"Don't you ever disobey my orders again, do you hear me?" The look in his eyes was cold and protective, worried and authoritative. "Sam nearly died last night, and as much as I don't want to say it, it's all your fault."

"Maybe if you hadn't locked your sons up in a cabin for three days I wouldn't have gone outside," Dean said grudgingly, taking a few steps towards the pair in front of him.

"I-I'm sorry," little Dean said quietly for what felt like the thousandth time. He caught John's eyes and, in what looked like fear – "_he looked at me different, you know--which was worse"_ – looked at the floor.

"Don't let it happen again, Dean." John looked over at Sam. "You're supposed to look out for him."

Little Dean nodded while the older one simply shot John a look, even though he couldn't see it.

"Looks like I'm still doin' a pretty damn good job of that now, huh?"

John began to stand up, not taking his eyes off of the ten-year-old. "I'm going out for a little while," he said. "I know after last night I probably shouldn't leave you alone with Sam –"

Dean nearly winced. That one hurt.

"—But this is important. So keep your eye on him and _don't leave._"

The younger Dean merely nodded again – "Damn it, kid! Stick up for yourself!" – and watched his father put on his jacket, leaving without saying another word. He stood there for a moment as if replaying his father's words in his young mind before a sound from the armchair brought both Deans' eyes to it.

"Sammy?" They both asked in unison, which Dean found to be a little more than creepy.

"Dean?" Came a small, tired voice, and a little face peeked around the back of the chair.

Little Dean walked over to his brother. "Hey, um, Sammy…" He started, aiming to apologize.

Dean watched and remembered. Remembered some of his thoughts that day at that moment. And that he knew that he wouldn't be able to atone for what he'd done – or in this case, hadn't done. And that if he couldn't apologize for it, he shouldn't try.

"Uh… what do you want for breakfast?"

"Not hungry."

"C'mon. You've got Chef BoyarDean cookin' for you…"

Dean didn't hear the end of the conversation because he found himself outdoors by a track where two familiar children were running, slightly older than before. Both tired, one was stumbling in exhaustion and looked to be on the verge of tears.

--

Mmf, and, uh, I didn't remember until after I wrote this chapter that Dean said after the Shtriga incident John never spoke of it again. So... oops. Minor detail.

R&R! Reevviiieeewwwsplz.


	3. Chapter 3

No ownership of the Winchesters whatsoever. Yes, still.

And I'd like to give a nod to my boyfriend for this chapter; I borrowed the premise and some of the dialogue from a ficlet he wrote. So applause for him. :3

--

**Chapter Three**

"Keep running!" Came the voice of their father. "One more lap to go!"

Dean looked around him incredulously, wondering how the hell he got from the cabin to this field so suddenly. "Who the hell am I, Ebenezer Scrooge? Goddamn." He threw his head back. "Alright, ghost-of-Christmas-whatever, get your ass out here so I can pump it full of rock salt!"

After a moment, he figured it was safe to assume that there was no ghost. Dean shook his head, taking a few steps to lean on the low chain-link fence separating him from the others out on the track. He watched them run for a few minutes, and then watched Sammy go down hard.

"Sam!" He heard his younger counterpart yell, and he watched him double back to kneel next to the fallen boy on the rubber track. "Sammy."

"Get up!" John yelled, and Dean nearly glared at him. But John was just doing the job of a father who wanted his kids to be safe from what they and only a few other people knew was out there – a job he'd done well, since they were both still alive and kicking in their twenties. Dean withdrew the glare, supposing he could forgive him.

"Sammy, you gotta get up," he heard little Dean say.

"Don't wanna run 'nymore," Sam groaned, curled up in a tight ball on the track.

"Come on, Sam. Dad says just one more lap."

"I don't wanna," Sam said weakly.

"I know we've been working all day, but dad says—"

"I don't wanna, Dean!"

Little Dean turned to look at his father. "Sam says he can't run anymore."

"Yes, he can," John responded. When he walked over to kneel next to the boys, Dean hopped the fence and followed. He stood next to his father as the man looked to each of his young sons.

"Look, boys. I know this is hard, but you need to do it. If you aren't fast –"

"They'll be faster," Dean said over his father's voice. "If I had a buck for every time you said that…"

"Dad, I don't want to. I can't…" Sam buried his face in his arms.

"Sam, get up. Right now," his father ordered.

Dean watched his younger self straighten at the order, nearly doing so himself. He seemed to be forming an idea, and a smirk crept up Dean's face as he remembered just what it was.

"Sammy, if you don't run now I'm gonna win. You don't wanna let me win the race, do you?"

After a moment Sam smiled weakly, trying to push himself up.

"Never could keep you from a good challenge," Dean muttered, unable to hold back his admiring grin.

"You're not gonna win," Sam said, standing shakily. Little Dean smiled. "Go!" Sam yelled.

Dean watched as his younger self let Sammy keep the lead, jogging along behind them. Anything to keep him going, he remembered. Anything to get him to finish. They were going to finish this, and they were going to finish it together.

But then Sam cried out and fell. Dean reached out to catch him, but to no avail; he simply fell through his incorporeal hands. He cursed and merely watched Sam lay on the ground, tears beginning to roll down his baby brother's round cheeks.

"Sam, you've gotta get up," little Dean said as he ran through Dean ("Wuh—stop that!") and to Sammy's side.

"N-no, Dean, I-I can't. I can't do it."

Before they knew it, John was at their sides again. "I'll take him home. He's exhausted."

Little Dean nodded and stood up, relieved.

"After you finish this lap."

"What? But dad—"

"No buts, Dean. Finish this."

"Dad, Sam's—"

"The sooner you finish, the sooner he goes home. Go."

"Come on, kid," Dean said, feeling slightly ridiculous to talking to himself – albeit a much younger version that couldn't hear him anyway. "It'll be worth it. Just do this one last lap."

"But dad, I'm—"

"_Now, _Dean."

The young Dean sighed and turned around, taking a moment before he began running at a slow pace again.

Dean stood and watched, remembering that day. He remembered the pain he had in his side and shoulder when he finished and how quickly Sam fell asleep when they got home. "I have to be strong in case Sammy can't," he said, voicing his younger self's thoughts.

When he turned around, he was no longer on the red rubber of the running track but in the front yard of a familiar junior high school.

--

R&R! And no, I don't mean take a three day pass to Tokyo. -bricked-


	4. Chapter 4

There is a house in New Orleans they call the I-Don't-Own-The-Winchesters. Extra points if you know what Dean's referring to in the first paragraph.

--

**Chapter Four**

"This is officially weird," Dean said, looking around. "I've probably got Gonzo and Rizzo stalkin' me doing some whackjob narrative." Slowly he began walking up to the doors of the school, peering in the smudged windows. There were a few people in the front entrance, obviously waiting for school to let out. Dean looked around for a clock, finding one hanging from the cutoff where a part of the second floor overlooked the first. 2:57.

"Alrighty, then," he said, depositing his hands in his pockets. "If this is another one of those twilight zone flashback moments, I've got three minutes before these kids start piling out." He raised his eyebrows at the school, looking up at the windows built into the red stone walls. He remembered this school. Never really liked it, but then again he never really liked school in general. Not like Sam, who absorbed the stuff like a sponge and still wanted more. He leaned against the wall, brushing lint off of his jacket. Somewhere in the distance he heard a song playing and focused himself on it; it sounded familiar but he couldn't quite place it.

Some movement in the corner of his eye caught Dean's attention. A young boy – clearly still elementary school age – was approaching the school, hands clenched around the straps of his book bag. He was looking around the empty schoolyard as he kicked at the gravel in the walkway, the look of knowing he didn't really belong here on his face. Dean pushed himself off of the wall, curious, and approached the child.

It was Sam, and he couldn't have been more than ten years old.

Before he could say anything, the school bell rang and little Sammy's head shot up, eyes gazing straight through Dean. _Man,_ was that getting annoying.

"What's so important about today, huh?" He looked around as students began to pile out of the school. "Sam did this every day." He paused. "Unless…"

"Who's the kid?"

"Oh, shit."

Sammy looked up at the speaker; a boy no more than fifteen years old. He was tall, had a mischievous look in his eye and had that perpetual air of a bully. He grinned and looked over the ten-year-old. "Aren't you a little young to be trying to hang out with the big kids?" Dean looked behind him. There were three other people there with the bully, all seeming to find amusement in the young boy.

"I was just…"

"I wa! I wuh-wa!" The teen mocked, getting a laugh out of his friends. "Know what? You can just hand over your money before you go home crying to mommy."

Sam's eyes lowered at that comment and Dean simply glowered. "You son of a bitch."

"N-no," Sam said quietly.

"What's that?"

"No! I'm not gonna!"

Tue bully only looked amused. "You wanna bet?" He grabbed Sam by the front of his shirt, but was cut off when he was grabbed from behind.

"You! Hands off!"

The bully – Chuck Andrews, Dean remembered – turned around after letting go of Sam.

"You can take your stinking hands off of him," said the same voice.

"Dean Winchester," Chuck acknowledged, wearing that same defiant grin. "Why are you sticking up for the wimp here?"

"Dean!" Sam shouted in relief, running through the older Dean and to his teenaged brother.

Chuck snorted as Sam all but latched onto his older brother. "Kid brother? Cute."

Dean watched as his younger self bit back embarrassment, glaring at Chuck. "Yeah, whatever. Don't come near him again or you'll have me to answer to."

"That's terrifying, Winchester. Really." The upperclassman rolled his eyes. "What'cha gonna do about it?"

"I don't think you want to find out," the teenaged Dean replied, giving the bully a mock-pleasant nod. He took Sam by the arm and began walking away.

Chuck caught Dean by the shoulder. "Don't I?" He asked in a challenging tone, and both Deans glared.

"Trust me, dude. You don't," the older one warned pointlessly.

If Dean hadn't done this before, he wouldn't have known what happened in the time between when Chuck was vertical and when he was flat on the ground. But he smirked at the replay of the incident, feeling a sense of pride – and noticing something he hadn't that day; the look of pure awe and hero worship on Sam's face.

"C'mon, Sammy," the younger Dean said, grabbing his younger brother's arm and pulling him towards the sidewalk.

"Oh, right. I remember how this went down," Dean said, wiping a hand over his face as he saw someone approaching that his younger self did not.

"Mr. Winchester."

Both the younger Dean and Sam looked behind them, and the fourteen-year-old all but swore.

"Yes, Mr. Hefferman?"

"I believe you know very well that fighting on school grounds is against the rules." The teacher peered down at him and Sam looked between the two. "Now, I know you're relatively new, but you should at least know that."

The younger Dean glanced around. "School's out," he said. "So technically I don't have to listen to you."

Mr. Hefferman shifted in annoyance. "You're still on school property, Mr. Winchester, so _technically_ you do." He gave Dean a look that made even the older one want to punch his face in. "Come with Mr. Andrews and I to the office. Your brother can wait in the hall."

"This reeks," the fourteen-year-old muttered under his breath as he and his brother followed the teacher and an overreacting Chuck Andrews inside.

Later on, after a suspension was issued – Dean didn't need to see that again; he might've gone incorporeal batshit on Mr. Hefferman so he sat in the hallway with Sammy – he'd followed the two to an ice cream parlour somewhere in town. He slipped into a booth before them and watched as they sat down, his younger counterpart looking like he'd just gotten jabbed in the backside with a rod. But they ordered their ice creams, Dean chocolate and Sam strawberry, and sat in silence for a few minutes.

"That was really cool what you did," Sam said quietly, trying to hide the grin that came with mentioning it by sticking his spoon in his mouth. "It's too bad that teacher didn't think so."

The younger Dean shrugged. "No big deal."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Come on, man! That was sweet. Take some pride in yourself."

Sam looked up at his brother, down at his ice cream and took a bite.

"How was school?"

Sammy grinned. "Good!" He shifted eagerly in his seat. "Today we learned about Egypt and we're starting a book about it soon. I think it's called "The Egypt Game". It's got a guy who carries around a purple octopus."

The younger Dean raised an eyebrow. "Egypt. Octopus. Because those two things have everything to do with each other." He shoved a spoonful of chocolate ice cream in his mouth. "Is dad back?"

Sammy shook his head. "Nope."

There was another long silence and Dean continued to watch the two.

"How's Angela?" Sam asked, a look of knowing in his ten-year-old eyes.

"Broke up," his brother said simply, feigning interest in the pattern on the table.

Dean recalled that particular girl in his memory. "I was too good for her," he justified.

Sam looked down. "How come?"

"'Cause we did," the teen replied.

"She realized what a freak I was," Dean explained to an unhearing Sam. "Realized what it'd do to her rep. Going out with somebody who moved around all the time, livin' mostly in motels with his dad and little brother." His jaw tightened. "I _was _too good for her."

Sam looked up, feeling badly for his big brother. He'd liked Angela. More than Dean's past girlfriends, anyway. "Oh… okay. Hey, um," he started, zipping his bag open to rummage through it, "could you maybe… um, would you come to this?" Meekly, he pulled out a slip of yellow paper and handed it across the table to his older brother.

The teen took it and examined it, eyebrows contracting as he read. "Parent day?"

Sam nodded, embarrassed. "Um, yeah… 'cause, y'know, dad probably wouldn't come to it, and everyone else has somebody coming. So I thought maybe…"

"Sure, dude." The teenaged Dean shot a reassuring smile at his brother across the table. "I'll be the best damn parent you ever had."

Sam smiled appreciatively, seeming to be fighting the urge to get up and hug his big brother. "Thanks, Dean. You're the best big brother ever."

"Dude, I'm your only big brother ever."

"And don't you ever forget it," the older Dean added, pointing at the ten-year-old Sam. Smirking, he stared out the window at the street for a long moment, and when he turned his head towards the two again, they were gone. The whole parlour was gone.

When he looked around he was in the middle of the woods. Alone.

--

I've got the feeling there's been an 'Angela' in the series before. Oh well. It's not her.

R&R! Will update tomorrow after my English exam.


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you for the reviews! And to the one person who got the reference... hehe. I'm glad you're enjoying it, and I encourage you to read on! Thanks again.

Oh, and if it matters, no, I still don't own the Winchesters. D8

--

**Chapter Five**

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean called, although he knew he couldn't hear him. In the distance he heard music playing – damn it, why was that so familiar? – But the more he tried to follow it the farther away it got. He turned a circle, tried to get his bearings. "Hello?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a blast of water shot straight through him. "What the—"

"I believe we can call that a hit, Sammich," he heard himself say, and he turned around. There he was, all seventeen years of him, holding a fully loaded water gun and grinning victoriously. Dean barely had enough time to turn around before a soggy, thirteen-year-old Sam walked through him.

"Jesus Christ, would you cut that out?" Dean rubbed his arms, feeling almost violated.

"You got lucky," Sam squeaked, and the voice crack made his brother snort.

"Yeah, whatever, Tex. If you don't learn to aim that thing better you're gonna find yourself in some nasty shit."

"Well for one thing, Dean, this thing's a pound or two heavier than a normal gun, and for another you gave me the one that doesn't pump right."

"Excuses," his brother finalized, waving a hand, and he looked over Sam's dripping shirt. "How's about another round?"

Sam's shoulders dropped. "Do we have to?"

"Come on, man. One more. Then you can go do your homework or whatever it is you do for fun."

Sam rolled his eyes but let the comment drop. "It's getting dark."

"So what?"

"So we're in the middle of the woods and it'll be hard to find our way back at night?" He set the water gun down at his side. "Let's just go home."

"Come on, Sam. Just one more. Quit whining."

Dean watched this exchange. "Go home. Just go home."

"Dean!" Sam squeaked again, but this time it wasn't funny. "Look, I know you're still pissed about what dad said earlier but taking it out on me with a high-powered water gun to vent it isn't the answer." Sam's blue-green eyes searched his older brother's face with knowing. He was right and he knew it; Dean had gotten into an argument with their father earlier and had only suggested moving-target practice out in the woods with the water guns when he was fuming mad and in need of getting away from the house. "Let's just go." He rubbed his sore chest with his fist, not taking his eyes off of his brother.

"Nothing's wrong! This has nothing to do with that!"

"Then why won't you just come home?" A silence followed, and Sam looked worried when his brother didn't say anything.

Dean shook his head, eyes moving to the leafy forest floor. "You wouldn't have gotten it." He wished he didn't have to watch this.

"Right," Sam said when his brother didn't respond. He picked the gun up with a little more force than necessary. "I'm going."

Dean watched himself watch after Sam as he disappeared into the woods. He watched as his younger self seated himself against a tree trunk and tossed the water gun down, reaching a hand up to rake it through his hair.

And even after replaying this scene over and over in his mind over the years, the sound of Sam yelling his name still made him jump.

"Sam?" The seventeen-year-old Dean shouted into the woods, removing his shotgun from its holster. He set off at a run in the direction that Sam had left and the older Dean followed. "Sammy!"

Both Deans nearly skidded into a deep pit in the ground. When they looked down, Sam was inside it, clutching his ankle in pain.

"Who needs Lassie?" the seventeen-year-old muttered to himself, looking around for something to get Sam out with.

"Dean," Sam moaned from inside, "there's something out here."

"Something like what?" his brother asked distractedly, busying himself with tearing a branch off a tree.

"I – ow – I don't know, a spirit or something. Ow – I think I broke my ankle." Sam winced.

His older brother rolled his eyes, giving the branch one last forceful tug. "Great, we've got the vengeful spirit of Little Timmy pushing people into wells. Hang on, Sammy. I'll get you out."

Dean didn't want to watch this. He walked around the area, tried to will himself somewhere else, but he couldn't block out the attempts of his younger self or the pain-filled moans of Sam. When he opened his eyes again they immediately widened. "Look out!"

It was as if the younger Dean had heard him, because he whipped around and shot a blast of rock salt at the spirit. It drew back, but only for a moment before it went after Sam. "Christ--!" He leaped down into the pit, landing next to Sam and firing another shot at the spirit. Two more drove it away.

"You all right?"

Sam nodded slowly. "I will be. How… how're we gonna get out of here?"

"We'll figure something out."

It was dark before they finally got home, and for that they received five days of rigorous training, weeks of their father berating them, all for making this careless mistake – for _Dean _being stupid and not listening to his brother, not looking out for Sam. Dean closed his eyes and took a step away from the pit, a shock hitting him when he tripped on a root that he hadn't seen. Expecting to fall on his backside on the hard ground, he was a good deal confused when he landed in the back seat of the Impala next to Sam.

--

Arr and arr. Matey.


	6. Chapter 6

... you know the drill.

--

**Chapter Six**

Dean rubbed his forehead in exasperation, beginning to wonder what the hell the point of all this was. Here he was, stuck reliving his memories – most of them ones he wished he could forget. Either he was stuck in some kind of messed up mind trick, he'd really had too much to drink, or… wait. The car.

Could he be dying?

Dean shook his head. No way was he dying. Sure, his life seemed to be flashing before his eyes, but it couldn't be happening to him. Besides, if he did die he'd go straight to The Big Man himself and plead the case that he had a dorky little brother that he'd promised to look out for. And if that didn't work, he'd knock him out and hijack the next ride back to the living world. Dean Winchester was not dying.

A shout from the front seat brought him out of his thoughts. For a second the first thing he noticed was a familiar song on the radio – the one he'd heard in the woods and at the school – but then realized that they were in the car with John and his angry voice was dominating.

"I don't _believe _you two!" their father accused angrily, taking his eyes off of the road long enough to glare at his sons. "I told you to stay put and that I would handle it."

Dean saw Sam shake his head beside him. "Dad, we figured out where the body was. I don't see what the big—"

"The big deal, Samuel Winchester, is that you directly disobeyed my orders. If I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions asked."

"Dad, that's ridiculous. You were on the wrong track and we're perfectly capable of—"

"I don't care, Sam!"

Dean leaned his head again the car window, wondering how long he'd be in this particular memory. "You always hated being wrong, dad," he said, slightly grateful that his father couldn't see or hear him. "Proud as a friggin' peacock."

"I just don't understand how you can be pissed at us about this!" We found the body, got rid of the spirit--!" Sam's tone was somewhere between hurt and angry. "You should be congratulating us if anything!"

John stepped on the gas. "You two are lucky to be _alive._"

"Dad-!"

"That's enough, Sam."

Sam leaned over to get at a good angle to see his brother's face in the front seat. "Dean, don't you have anything to say about this? A lot of it was your idea."

The young man in the front seat was silent, trying to hide the nervousness in his eyes as he glanced at his father whose angry stare was set on the road.

"Dean?"

"Be quiet, Sammy," was all his brother responded with, his tone flat and his eyes set straight ahead.

Dean looked over at the sixteen-year-old version of his brother and the look of betrayal on his face and felt his heart tighten in his chest. He closed his eyes to let the feeling pass, and when he opened them again he was in a bar. Laughter nearby drew him to a table with two very familiar patrons and he hoped to whatever God he hadn't pissed off lately that this memory wouldn't be as painful.

--

R&R.


	7. Chapter 7

I think my Winchester ownership papers got lost in the mail. (Ergo: I don't own them.) :P Thank you for the reviews! I really appreciate them!

**--**

**Chapter Seven**

They had to be at least eighteen and twenty-two, seated in a bar together having a drink and sharing a laugh. These moments were uncommon, Dean noted to himself, uncommon as a good-natured laugh from his father or a snowstorm in Texas, but they were things he made sure to remember.

"Dude, you're shitting me. You actually did that?"

"Dean, it was April Fools' Day and he was asking for it."

Dean's younger self took a sip of beer, both amusement and something of pride dancing in his eyes. "I know, but the idea of you pulling a prank on someone besides me… it ain't clickin', man."

"You might not believe it, but there are people out there who deserve it more than you do," Sam replied in a good-natured tone, taking a drink as well. "He never knew it was me, anyway. Took out some poor, unsuspecting other guy."

He merely smirked and shook his head, dismissing the subject. "Hey, Mr. Honour Roll," his brother started, tapping the bottom of his beer bottle on the table, "What do you think that guy wishes he could change about his past?"

Was he pointing at him? He was pointing at him. He couldn't be… Dean looked around the room frantically when it seemed as though his past self was indicating him, the incorporeal older incarnation of Dean Winchester standing just a few feet away, watching. "What the…" confused, he moved out of the way and realized he was pointing at the man seated behind him. He breathed out a sigh of relief.

"What?"

"It's a game. Gets better the more alcohol you have. Just make shit up."

Sam didn't seem sold on the idea but played along. "Uh, okay… he wishes he hadn't given his Marvel comics away when he hit twenty-five."

"Hey," Dean warned, noticing Sam's allusion to him. But then he remembered what age his younger counterpart was – twenty-two – and chalked it up to a freaky coincidence. … From a psychic kid who didn't know he had the power yet.

"Okay, your turn. That woman there, what's her favourite animal?"

"Lemmings," his brother responded. "She used to be suicidal and enjoys watching the suckers take the plunge."

"Lemmings don't jump off cliffs on purpose, Dean—"

"Save it, smarty pants. That guy in the corner, what's his favourite section in the newspaper?"

Sam took a long look in that direction before answering. "The obits. Likes picking out mysterious deaths."

His brother lifted his beer to his mouth, furrowing his eyebrows. "Sprained your creative muscle after that first one?"

Sam smirked. "No. 'That guy in the corner' is a mirror."

His brother looked across the room into Sam's reflection and tried not to laugh. "So it is."

"Smooth operator," Sam laughed, holding his beer out to tap the neck against his older brother's beer bottle in a 'cheers' motion.

"Yeah, well," the other began to admit, "After further inspection, Mr. Marvel over there is actually a chick."

Sam almost snorted. "Seriously? Oh, man. Oops."

"All right, we're officially bad at this. Let's order another round."

Dean's usually uptight little brother actually laughed. "You are buying, right?"

"Of course. You are the graduate being celebrated, after all, even if it's kinda belated," his brother replied, raising his bottle for another toast. Sam complied. "So, any plans for this wonderful, magical world after high school? Going to go find yourself a lady right away or are you gonna stick it out in the boonies with dad and I for a while longer?"

Sam's smile stayed his face even though he was about to bring up a tough topic. "Uh, actually…" he paused as if considering his words, and then reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a white envelope and passed it to Dean.

His brother's hazel eyes scanned the front of the envelope for a long moment. "Stanford University. Huh." He passed the envelope back to Sam. "That's some pretty serious stuff there, Sammy." Of course, he was avoiding the taboo topic of what their father would think.

"Dad doesn't know yet," Sam said as if their thoughts were one and the same. "But I can't turn this down, Dean… it's the chance of a lifetime."

His brother nodded. "Congrats, college-boy. Or would that be university-boy?"

Sam shook his head. "Cut it out. I just thought I'd let you know before I give dad the news. … Or maybe it'd be better described as 'drop the bomb'."

"Yeah, well. Thanks," his brother said, raising his glass. "When are you leaving?"

"Next September."

The twenty-two year old nodded. "Cool beans." He wasn't going to let Sam know that he'd miss him. He wasn't. His little brother had just gotten what he'd always wanted – and what Dean had always wanted for him – and he wasn't going to screw it up by putting that burden on him. That, and it just wouldn't be cool.

Dean tuned out the rest of their conversation to think about that topic for a moment. Life had been… different after Sam left for Stanford. The first few months were stiff and silent and orders; no conversation, just doing. Driving in the Impala with the barrier of classic rock between them. Eventually things eased back to normal – 'normal' defined in the Winchester dictionary, anyway, which would make Noah Webster roll over in his grave; 'normal' meant 'Dad's not trying to kill me with a look every time I see him', just as 'everything's fine' meant 'we're all still in one piece physically, but that's about it' – and things were all right between father and son again for the time being. Dean had experienced it all before, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for his younger counterpart and his brother who still had yet to go through one of their hardest times together – and that Sam would lose who was, quite possibly, the love of his life. And here he was, all future plans and University and smiles, unaware of the tragedy that would occur in just a couple short years.

The twenty-seven-year-old Dean just stood by, knowing how well Sam's breaking the news would eventually turn out. It was the blow that nearly destroyed what was left of their family – caused an argument that lasted almost two days on and off vocally, constantly if you counted dirty looks and slammed cupboards and the angry silence that hung in the air that no one dared to break –, and upon remembering that this would be the brothers' last fun, social time together for a long time his expression grew cold.

The next thing he knew he was in the middle of a shouting match between Sam and their father.

--

R&R. Last update tomorrow.

... Actually, I've been thinking of adding more re-experiences as alternatives, of sorts, when I'm finished writing this. (Really, the possibilities are endless. I could have a field day with this.) So, what say you, readers? Good idea? Bad? Cheese?


	8. Chapter 8

I got to thinking, and I think I might revamp the last part of this story. Right now there's only one chapter left, but from the suggestions I got... my plotbunnies are hopping. Thanks for the reviews!

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**Chapter Eight**

"I want to get an education, dad! I'm sorry if that doesn't fit into your plans!"

John walked to the other end of the motel room and faced the wall as if he'd rather look at it than his younger son, seeming to be gathering his thoughts. Dean looked over and saw himself – nearly an exact copy now – sitting on the bed. "We're a family, Samuel. And what you're doing is splitting us up."

Sam's eyebrows creased in what seemed to be hurt and disbelief, tossing a hand nowhere in particular. "This isn't a personal attack on you guys, dad! This is about me wanting to pursue what _I _want. Maybe have a relatively normal life for once."

"You're turning your back on us, Sam! _You're_ walking away!" His father turned around, and the look in his eyes could be described as murder. Murder from hurt – his youngest son was suddenly leaving and apparently he couldn't do anything about it. Suddenly he'd lost control over his boys.

"Don't give me that guilt trip," Sam started, voice low. "Don't."

"It's not a guilt trip, Sam. It's the truth. It's the god's honest truth. You're walking away from us, after everything your brother and I have done for you."

This close to snapping. Twenty pounds hanging from a thread over a waterfall. "Well, you know what? Maybe I want to walk away. Maybe I want to walk away from hunting and driving around the country and dealing with your _obsession_ with the thing that killed mom."

Dean leaned against a wall, watching the exchange between his younger brother and father, glancing every now and then at his younger counterpart who was staring darkly at the opposite wall as if trying to make himself deaf to the anger being parried across the room like a tennis ball. He was tired of fighting, Dean knew. He'd already fought himself out.

John jabbed a finger in Sam's direction. "It's your life! You can't walk away from it! No matter what path you take, it'll always be your life and it'll always be there to stare you in the face. You can't hide from that."

"I'm not trying to hide. I'm just trying to do what I think is right for me without you _bossing me around!_" Sam voice was thunderous now, and Dean wondered how he wasn't hoarse at this point. Then again, Sam always could last the longest in a shouting match.

"You don't know what's right for you!"

"How would you know? You spent your whole life with us chasing this thing. You don't _know_ anything else! You want your revenge so badly that you're dragging us down with you. Maybe Dean can take it, but _I can't_."

"I'm just trying to keep you and your brother safe!"

"We're not kids anymore, dad!"

"I don't care!"

It was time for a snap decision; walk off the cliff or face the army behind him. It was obvious that in that moment, Sam decided to take that step off. "Neither do I! Because I don't give a damn what you say; I'm going to Stanford and you can't stop me."

Dean flinched at Sam's words; they were words that replayed in his mind for months after the fight. He watched his younger self look between his father and his brother, and he wished that he had, at that time, gotten up and said something.

"The both of you just shut up!"

At least, something useful.

"Keep out of this, Dean," John said, shooting his look at Dean; the one he'd used since he was a child that said he was the boss and was to be listened to.

"No, I'm not going to keep out of this," he said, anger rising in his voice. "The past two days all you two have been doing is bitching at each other and I'm _sick _of it!"

"What do you care?" Sam asked angrily, turning to face his brother. "Last I checked you were just fine with doing whatever dad tells you!"

His brother tried to ignore the verbal blow as John gave Sam a look he couldn't quite understand, holding a hand up as he stood between his father and brother. "Look, Sam, I'm all for you going to University. And dad, I get that you're pissed about him leaving. But duking it out in the middle of the living room is a lame-ass way of resolving it."

Dean looked between the three arguers. "I tried."

Sam looked at his brother like he was stupid. "Then why the hell aren't you backing me up on this, Dean?"

He didn't answer. There were too many things he could say, and right now he was torn between his father and his brother.

"Dean?"

"Look, just stop fighting, all right? If you want to go, go."

"Whose side are you on, Dean? It's not your decision to make," John bellowed. At this, his eldest son went silent.

"It's not yours either," Sam interjected, receiving a glare from his father in return.

There was a long silence and the tension could have been cut with a knife and served for dinner before their father spoke again. "Sam, if you're going to leave, stay gone." The look in John's eyes was pure cold, as if Sam was dead and had been since the beginning of their argument. "Don't call us, don't look for us."

Both Deans watched Sam's face as the silence encompassed the room. They watched his eyes as different emotions crossed them: pain, anger, hurt and finally abandon.

"I can do that," was all Sam said, and in a matter of silent moments he'd grabbed his things, shoved them into his bag and left.

The next few minutes were long and silent, painful.

"Dad…"

"Don't, Dean."

He didn't want to see anymore. He wanted out. Out of these memories, out of this motel, out of everything. So Dean closed his eyes, hoping, this time, it would take him home.

Hope, however, is not always met with the desired outcome.

--

R&R hopefully I'll have something figured out by the end of the day.


	9. Chapter 9

So I managed to split this into two seperate chapters; it was originally the end (and used to be two pages long. Now it's five.). I practically rewrote the whole thing. This is how much I love you, readers! ♥

Thank you so much for all the reviews and kind words. Remember, constructive criticism is GOOOD. I'm always looking for things that'll help me out in the future. So thanks for reading. I'm glad you like it. And now, onward!

--

**Chapter Nine**

"God damn it!" Dean shouted, punching the wall in frustration as he looked around the apartment he remembered as the one he'd picked Sam up in before Jessica died. "What the fuck is going on? I want out of here, you hear me? I don't want to watch this shit anymore! It's in the past! Let it go!"

It took Dean only a second to realize that his words applied to him.

"Oh hell no," he started, walking around the empty room. "No. This ain't happening because I can't let it go. I did let it go. It's _been_ let go of. And damn it, I'm lying through my goddamn teeth." Dean slumped down onto a nearby couch, letting his head fall backward. "This is ridiculous. I just want to go home."

There was a long quiet in the room as Dean just sat, reveling in the silence as his thoughts flowed freely, albeit choppily in his frustration. He hadn't let it go, none of it. Not the Shtriga, not the incident in the woods, hell, there were even a ton more things that he hadn't re-experienced that he hadn't let go. Fights, accidents, harsh words, anger and grudges. But maybe he had to. Maybe this was happening for that reason exactly, maybe feeling the pain again was a more direct re-enactment than what he'd been repeating over and over in his mind over the years; a final crack of the whip on his back to make him realize just what he was doing to himself.

God knew that Sam was always telling him to let the stuff out; to talk to him instead of keeping it inside where it would build up like carbonated liquid, building and building until, finally, it popped. There had been plenty of opportunities for that, too, to talk and get things out – because they were spending _how many _hours stuck together in the Impala in the run of a week? – But Dean's pride wouldn't allow for it. His pride and maybe the small fear inside that if he did try to explain it, Sam wouldn't get it or he'd get pissed off because he never said anything before. Hell, one of the reasons might even have been that he didn't want his little brother to see him in a weak moment, spilling his guts as if Dean were an over-emotional teenaged girl and Sam a diary.

Once when he was younger, he, his father and Sam were driving through some almost eerily perfect white-picket fence town somewhere in Oklahoma. He remembered looking at each of the houses they passed and thinking that beyond those doors there must be some messed up shit going on. It looked so perfect and cheerful on the outside, but perfection and utter happiness? It was all a ruse. It had to be. Nothing was perfect and nothing was clean-cut and whitewashed, trimmed and pruned. It could look like it on the outside, but on the inside things couldn't ever be fine. They could be ignored and tucked away, but everyone had their problems and everyone had their dirty little secrets behind closed doors. He remembered identifying with the houses, relating to them. His whole family was a whitewashed townhouse, all three of them pretending it was all well and good but no one ever really believing it. The fights, the injuries, the careless mistakes – they would be erased a day or two later, or seemed to be – like trying to wipe a chalkboard with a piece of paper. They were just never spoken of again in a feeble hope that if it wasn't talked about it would go away.

Hell. Forget him, his whole family was messed up.

Eventually, Dean was pacing. Thinking about their dad, thinking about Sam. Sam, _man, _that boy… talk about problems. Dean was outright with his anger, and he knew it. If he was pissed he wouldn't bust a cap at the nearest person, necessarily, but he'd be more than happy to beat the shit out of some supernatural creature that didn't see it coming. Dean would fight out his anger, but Sam… he didn't want to admit it, but Sam scared him sometimes. He'd adopted the stony quietness from his father, letting it boil beneath the surface rather than having it spill over the top of the pot. And he was so good at hiding it that he didn't know _when _his little brother was angry anymore. Like a dormant volcano, all that happening beneath the surface with no rhyme or reason as to when, exactly, it was going to blow.

Dean sighed and rubbed his temples, leaning against the nearest wall. How was he supposed to let all that go? Stupid mistakes – things he could have _avoided_, god damn it – and arguments, things he would never forget no matter how hard he tried.

Things he couldn't forgive himself for.

"All right," Dean vocalized, pushing himself off of the wall. A black cloud is what it was. A black cloud, like Eeyore had in those Winnie the Pooh episodes Sammy used to be transfixed on when he was a baby. It had been following him since he was nine years old – since the Shtriga – and had more or less become a part of him ever since.

Dean didn't want to be rained on any longer, especially if experiencing something like this was the result.

He had to forgive himself and forgive his father. He couldn't spend his whole life dwelling on past mistakes, and he was beginning to realize that. He had to try, as much as he didn't want to. For himself and for his worried little brother.

Dean let out a long sigh, walking around the living room as if expecting something to happen. Which caused him to think – why hadn't it? Where was the show, the memory, he and Sam scrapping in the dark, Dean making up a lame excuse as to why he was there and trying to convince Sam to talk to him? Where was pretty ol' Jessica, all short panties and too-small Smurf t-shirt – _oh god, stop imagining that, Dean_ – and Sam, getting defensive as if to rub in the fact that he had a girlfriend and Dean didn't? "Whatever you wanna say, you can say it in front of her." Hah, yeah. "Uh, Sam, dad went out hunting one of those creepy, ugly, supernatural monster things – you know, the ones that used to kick your butt when you were little? – and hasn't been home in a few days. That's kinda a problem, so I kinda need your help finding him."

Yeah. That'd really go over well with the girlfriend.

Sam and his normal; what a laugh that was. He had nothing against his little brother wanting it, no, but to expect that after the way he grew up? He faced terrifying evil things daily. Their father had been right on one thing: no matter what either of them did, it was their life and it would always be there, waiting for them to turn around and look it in the eye once again. Maybe Sam was strong to try and turn his back on it, maybe he was stupid. He did know one thing, though, and it was that Dean would never be able to do it. Never be able to leave hunting behind for something normal, something that _wasn't _this. It made him feel safe, as contradictory as that sounded. Hunting, the Impala, Sam… it was all home to him and he couldn't imagine life without it. That adrenaline, that bond, that feeling of pride when more people were saved.

Dean wandered around the living room, hands in his pockets as his headache slowly ebbed away. This had opened his eyes, if anything. He needed the kick in the ass, whatever it really meant in the grand scheme of things. He still had no idea what was going on, if he was dying – but he _wasn't_, which he had decided on, so that wasn't even an option – or if this was all some whacked-out dream. Yeah, he'd just be waking up soon. Soon.

He looked up at the ceiling.

"I learned my lesson! Now send me home, you bastards." He paced as he spoke, looking up at the ceiling as if this was all some kind of divine intervention and whoever was pulling the strings was up there. "I get it, all right? I get it. I've been screwing myself over the past few years. I'm sorry." He paused. Should he really be apologizing? And to whom was he apologizing, anyway? "Look, I just want to go home, okay? I learned my lesson." He slapped his hands down at his sides in surrender. "Gotta let things go. Can't keep it inside forever. Yada yada." He was being outwardly blasé about it, but he knew that somewhere he actually meant it. Maybe it was time to try a new approach, let go. Stop being a jerk about keeping it all inside and personal, at the very least. But when he ended up with nothing, he merely sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor, looking around the living room again for some other means of escape.

"Dad's on a hunting trip and he hasn't been home in a few days," he heard himself say from another room. He jerked and turned around, following the voice, but strangely he could not find its source.

"I swear, any more of this freaky crap and I'm gonna lose it," he muttered to himself as he scanned the room. But as he walked the room became whiteness and the whiteness became shapes. Grey rectangles with white beams – a ceiling.

"Wh-what the hell?" Dean questioned, his voice surprisingly weak. Immediately he tried lifting his head, feeling like a dump truck had just run over him. Repeatedly. "God…" He winced. "Where am I?"

"Dean?" Came a familiar voice to his right, and he tried to move his head – damn, why was his neck so stiff? – To see its source. "Dean, it's all right. You're gonna be fine."

"Sam?"

--

R&R. Last chapter either tomorrow or Friday; I've got an Art exam and other very busylike things.


	10. Chapter 10

Here we are, folks. The last chapter. Thanks for all the reviews, it's been fun. ♥

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**Chapter Ten**

"Sam?"

"Hey, yeah, it's me," his brother said quickly, almost nervously as he fussed with putting away the cheap hospital-supplied surplus book he'd been reading with little interest for the past, oh, he didn't know… hour or so. He fumbled a page and dropped it, the text hitting the floor with a _thwack_. He left it there.

"You can see me?" Dean asked, and the look on Sam's face was pure confusion.

"Of course, I can, Dean…" the question obviously concerned Sam, and he looked from his brother to the hospital room door and back again. "Listen, I'm gonna go get a doctor in here—"

"No, no no no. Wait. What the hell happened?" Dean attempted sitting up, though he ached all over. Thankfully he wasn't hooked up to anything, but when he looked his right forearm and left bicep were bandaged and his head hurt like a bitch.

"Dean, you lost control of the car while you were driving in that storm, remember?" Sam sat down again. "It was snowing out. I kept calling you but you wouldn't pick up—"

Dean did a mental 'ah-ha!'. The song he kept hearing had been his cell phone ringtone. Why hadn't he realized that?

"—So after a while I got a ride with someone to go look for you."

Dean winced, his head already beginning to throb. He put a hand to it. "By 'got a ride' you mean 'hotwired a car', right?" When Sam didn't answer, he discovered it sort of hurt to laugh, even if it was a small amount. "All right. And?"

"_And_ you managed to grab yourself some kind of miracle, that's what," Sam said quietly. "The doctors say that if the car had still been turned on you might've died from carbon monoxide poisoning in the time it took to find you. You must've gotten the keys out just in time or something."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Got lucky."

"Considering you didn't freeze to death out there? I'd say so." Sam nodded as he spoke, an incredulous laugh almost escaping him. "You managed to get out with a mild concussion, a few abrasions and a mild case of hypothermia. Plus you've been out of it since I found you last night. Dean, you're lucky to be alive."

"_You two are lucky to be _alive_."_

"_Dad-!"_

"_That's enough, Sam."_

Sam drummed his fingers on his knee, nervous for some reason. "The snow stopped last night. The doctor says the roads usually get plowed the morning after, so we should be able to head for the next state tonight." Sam eyed Dean. "Since I know that you wouldn't want to stick around here much longer, seriously hurt or not."

Next state, huh? _"… Going out with somebody who moved around all the time, livin' mostly in motels with his dad and little brother."_

"Yeah. Sooner we get out, the better."

"So you're feeling all right? You're not writhing in pain, so that should be some kind of indication." Sam was trying to make light of the situation now, trying to make Dean feel a little better about the fact he'd just woken up in the hospital.

"I'm good. Just banged up, feel like I just got my ass kicked by a brick wall…" He shifted again, coughed. "Feelin' kinda numb. But hey, you know me. I've been through worse." Dean fell silent, staring at the white hospital wall behind Sam before his little brother noticed the troubled look on his face.

"What's the matter?"

"Hm? Nothin'," Dean replied automatically before realizing what he was saying. "Actually, uh… later. I'll tell you later." He knew Sam didn't believe him, but he didn't care. He turned his body so that his legs hung over the edge of the bed, looking his little brother in the eyes. "I just wanna get out of here."

"No, Dean. I know that look."

Dean raised his eyebrows at him insistently. "Sam, later."

"Dean—"

"_Sam. _I got a lot to think about right now, okay? And I'll tell you when I tell you. I promise."

"You just came out of a car accident."

"I just came out of a lot more than that," Dean muttered as he pushed himself off of the bed, standing on weak legs. "Get me out of here, Sammy." To divert his brother from the subject, he gave him a friendly swipe in the arm.

He wouldn't tell Sam about his misadventures in his mind – mostly because it was _crazy _and Sam would fuss, ask thousands of questions and then take it as some kind of ammunition for later if they ever got into an argument about Dean needing help again – but he definitely had a heck of a lot to talk (or try, anyway; talking about things wasn't exactly his strongest suit) about on their drive out of Colorado. It would be a new step for Dean Winchester, quite possibly, and maybe a new step for the both of them.

Sam rubbed his punched arm. "Fine. Jerk."

"Bitch."

… In some aspects.

**END**

"Sammy… what about the Impala?!"


End file.
